The Time Between
by GentleReader
Summary: While we've been pining for Glee, what have Quinn and Puck been up to? Slight spoilers for "Hell-o." ***CH. 5 is up!**
1. Invitation

**Disclaimer: **These characters are not mine—I'm just borrowing them temporarily. (Ryan Murphy, you ROCK!)

**Author's Note: **I loved "Hell-o," but found it brought up more questions than it answered about what the heck was going on in the Gleeverse during the hiatus. Herewith, my attempt to fill in the Quinn/Puck storyline: how did they go from "I'm doing this alone" to mohawk-ruffling cuteness?

**The Time Between**

"_Look, I'm not breaking up with you—I'm just saying, please stop supersizing, 'cause I don't dig on fat chicks."_

"_I'm pregnant, Puck."_

"_And that's my fault?"_

Sometimes she just wanted to smack him. HARD.

**One Month Earlier**

"_Hey, I know you're upset right now, but I want to be with you…and I'm gonna do everything I can to be a good dad to our baby."_

"_Thanks…but I honestly can't handle any more stress in my life right now. I'm gonna do this on my own. I know you don't understand it, but please respect it."_

She had meant it, too—about handling this pregnancy by herself. It would be better that way: no confusion. She wouldn't have to deal with Finn's dumbfounded betrayal and Puck's apparently flexible idea of commitment. Being alone left her free—free to do what she needed to do…get ready to be a mother.

All that energy that she used to put into Cheerios and the Celibacy Club, getting the perfect boyfriend, ruling the school…now she poured herself into her studies and Glee practice, visited the school district's daycare program, and paged through Lima's job listings. She would be strong: strong for herself, and strong for her baby.

Strong. But damn lonely.

And about to get lonelier. She had been staying with Brittany since the Finn blowup. Brit was sweet, unquestioning, accepting where it counted. But Quinn couldn't really talk to her (to be honest, Brit's "thing" with Santana sort of freaked Quinn out. She saw the irony of her reaction—"Judge not, lest ye be judged" and all that—but it was still a barrier). More importantly, however, Brittany's parents were becoming increasingly uncomfortable with a pregnant sixteen-year-old sharing their daughter's room, as if Quinn's growing belly might be contagious. Irony, again—Quinn could hardly tell them that an accidental pregnancy was probably the last thing Brit had to worry about.

In any case, she needed to find a more permanent place to live. She came into Glee practice one day, hopeless calculations of income and taxes and rent and medical bills whirling through her mind. The room was empty, so she allowed herself to sink down on a chair, head in hands.

A creak sounded to her left; she peeked through her fingers at a pair of long, denim-clad legs.

She didn't look up. Avoiding him had become second nature. She couldn't afford to be drawn into that dark gaze, to rest her head on the strong chest. And he had been pretty good about leaving her alone (too good, maybe), hanging in the back with Matt and Mike, not saying much, only approaching her when the choreography called for it.

Until now.

"So…" he started, then cleared his throat. "So, I checked it out with my mom…she said you could stay with us."

How did he know? She snuck a glance at him: he leaned back, the picture of cool unconcern—and then bit one fingernail.

"Thanks," she said shortly. "But I need to be—"

"Yeah, 'on your own,' I know. Gimme a break, Quinn—where the hell are you going to get $400 a month? Plus utilities?"

She straightened her spine against the condescension in his voice. "It's not something you need to worry about, _Noah_. I'll figure it out." Turning away, she busied herself stuffing a notebook into her bag and fought back a tear or two.

A touch on her shoulder. "Q, come on. This is my kid too. I can't afford to give you the cash, but at least I can offer you a free place to stay."

"That's—nice—of you…and your mom. But you guys don't really have the space…and you and I, in a small house? I don't think it's a good idea." _Way, way too hard_, she thought.

"We wouldn't be exactly in the same house, Queen Bee," he bristled. "You can have the extra room—y'know, the one…over the garage."

She did know.

Dark, a little musty, the ceiling a steep triangle…crammed with a jumble of household stuff, broken, unused, or just forgotten. A futon with a scratchy blanket. A tiny window through which she glimpsed the stars, just before…

Just before Puck's lips crashed down on hers and she arched toward him and everything else was blotted out in a wine-coolered haze of kissing and touching and discovering.

Her cheeks burned; she shook away the memory. Pride prompted her to refuse—but really, what other choice did she have? Maybe this was what she deserved, this was what she had to look forward to as a teenaged single mom: hand-me-down places, extra rooms, relying on other people's generosity.

And maybe there was a certain symmetry in it all, in bringing her daughter home to the place she was conceived.

She faced him, defeated. "Fine."

"'Fine'? Jesus, Quinn, don't knock me out with your gratitude." His arms were crossed, but he was grinning. Leaning forward, he said, "How about a kiss to seal the deal?"

"Don't push it, Puck." A well-placed shove sent him sprawling to the floor, just as the other Glee members arrived.

She hid her smile under cover of the general laughter.

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Confusion

**Chapter Two: Confusion**

She stood on the doorstep, nudging her pink duffel nervously with one foot. It was weird to be here, like this. Puck wasn't even home—apparently, the latest storm had wreaked havoc on the pools of Lima, and it was Puck to the rescue.

"Quinn…come on in." Mrs. Puckerman's tone was pleasant enough, but still wary. Quinn supposed she had some work to do to convince Puck's mom that she wasn't a manipulative maneater. After all, Mrs. Puck was (had been?) friends with Mrs. Hudson, who hadn't hesitated to express to Quinn—and, probably, Lima in general—exactly what she thought about Quinn's betrayal of her only child.

_Focus, _she thought. That episode was in the past, and no matter how much she wished she had done things differently, she couldn't change it—any of it. Moving here was a chance, however slim, for a fresh start, and she had damn well better take it.

Dragging her bag over the threshold, she smiled tentatively. "Hi, Mrs. Puckerman. Thanks for…letting me stay."

"This baby is Noah's responsibility too," the other woman replied firmly. "Now, let's get your things upstairs." She shouldered Quinn's duffel.

"Oh, no—I can get it," Quinn protested.

"You shouldn't be lifting anything heavy." Mrs. Puckerman started for the garage, then turned and looked at her for a long minute. "Quinn—you're going to have to get used to people helping you."

She knew Puck's mom was right: she _was_ going to need help, and a lot of it. She just wasn't used to being the disadvantaged one. In her life B.P. (Before Pregnancy), Quinn had been on top. She didn't need help from anyone, because she already had everything she wanted: power, popularity, success. Occasionally, when she was feeling particularly pious, she would lend a hand to one of the (many) less fortunate—poor souls who, on her less "Christian" days, might be ground under her exalted heels.

Sighing a little, she climbed the stairs to her borrowed nest. Puck's mother unlocked the door, then handed the key to Quinn and ushered her inside.

Quinn gasped.

Gone was the dark, stuffy, overcrowded room that she remembered. The jumble of junk had been cleared away to reveal a surprisingly large, cheerful space. The walls and ceiling were a brisk white, and a curtain fluttered over the window in the door. There wasn't much furniture, but what was left had clearly been refurbished: the futon, now covered with a green-and-blue quilt; a small kitchen table, scratched but spotless, with a matching chair; and a wrought-iron end table, which held a glass jar of flowers.

There was even a small bookshelf, also painted white. On it sat the baby's ultrasound photo in a silver frame.

"You've—" _done such an amazing job cleaning this place up_, she nearly said, before recalling that she wasn't supposed to have been here before…and in any case, it would sound like quite the backhanded compliment. "It looks…really nice," she amended.

Mrs. Puckerman laughed. "You should have seen it before!"

Quinn smiled weakly. "I hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"For me? No trouble at all—Noah did it all himself. Spent the last three weeks up here, working away…"

Wait.

_Puck_ had done all this? On his own? Before he even knew she would agree to come here?

Quinn's legs gave way; she had to sit down quickly on the futon.

"Well, you probably want to get settled in," Mrs. Puckerman was saying. "We'll have dinner around 6:30 or so…if you need anything before that, just come on down."

"OK…and thanks again." Quinn tried to convey just exactly how much she meant those words; perhaps she was successful, because Mrs. Puckerman gave her a small smile before heading down the stairs.

She sat for a long time, trying to make sense of the man-boy that was Noah Puckerman: was he really growing up? Could she trust him with her baby, her future…her heart?

_Maybe_, she thought. She picked up the photo, tracing the blurry black-and-white image with one finger. "Welcome home, little girl. Welcome home."


	3. Connection

**Chapter Three: Connection**

Quinn had just gotten an eyeful of tomato juice when he walked through the back door.

In the week that she had lived there, she had hardly seen him. He was gone when she left in the mornings (or, more likely, sleeping: his first class was English, which in Puck's estimation was a useless "femmy" subject). She had taken a job at Marshall's (in her former life, not a place she would have been caught dead; but they had surprisingly cute baby stuff) and could barely make it up the stairs after her evening shifts.

She had tried to thank him once, just after Glee practice. It hadn't gone well. In fact, he had blown her off with a dismissive shrug before walking away with Matt. Maybe he had been embarrassed…or maybe he found Finn's glare-at-20-paces a little too unnerving.

It almost seemed like he was avoiding her. Weird that he would work so hard, and then not press the advantage of their new proximity. Every night, she half-expected a knock at her door…an offer to "turn down her bed" or something equally suggestive.

But, though she could see the light on in his window, even hear his guitar (OK, maybe _sometimes_, when it wasn't too cold, she opened her door a little, so she could hear it better)…he never came.

She was bent over the sink, trying to flush out her eye, when the slam of the door made her jump. She knocked her head against the faucet--_damn!_

Puck took in the scene: the mangled tomato on the cutting board, her dripping hair, the trail of juice that ran down her yellow smock. "Nice work, Julia," he commented. "Looks like Halo 3 in here."

"I was making a salad," she announced frostily, one hand clapped over her still-stinging eye.

"With a machete?" He held up the oversized knife she'd been using.

God! Couldn't he just be nice? Grabbing it from him, she nearly (accidentally, almost) sliced right through his long-sleeved T. He held up both arms. "OK, OK, enough with the Lizzie Borden thing!"

_Calm down, Quinn._ She did, after all, owe him one. "Sorry…I'm not so great in the kitchen."

He leaned on the counter, his lips curving in a half-smile. "Don't sell yourself short—you're great in any room."

A little thrill ran through her as her eyes caught his. For the first time since they babysat together, she wanted to kiss him…it would be so easy…

"So what brought on this whole domestic-goddess thing?"

She straightened, flipping her hair over one shoulder. Should've known better. Just because he painted a room for her didn't mean he wanted anything…anything _real_. He'd probably spent the afternoon sexting some random girl.

"I just wanted to help out a little, to thank your mom—she didn't have to let me come here."

Puck looked down. He seemed almost…ashamed? "Yeah, she's actually been pretty cool. She was _pissed_ at first. I think she was somehow hoping I would get through high school without becoming a grade-A screwup." Now it was his turn to shake something off. Reaching over her, he grabbed a carrot. "Here, let me help you…before somebody loses a limb."

She watched as he quickly sliced the carrot, then the cucumber, and tossed them both into the salad bowl. "You're actually pretty good at this."

He shrugged. "It's been just the three of us for a long time. My mom can't do it all—you'd be surprised at my laundry and vacuuming skills."

She thought about growing up in this house, the constant struggle it must have been, for all of them. She thought of her own childhood, all princesses and ponies and a housekeeper to make the dinner and iron her skirts. "You're not, you know."

"Not what?" He sliced off the end of the lettuce and handed it to her. "Rinse that."

Running the water over the leaves, patting them dry on a towel, she took her time. "Not—a screwup."

She glanced up in time to see his pleased grin…before he replaced it with a knowing smirk. "Yeah, not for lack of trying, right? C'mon, I'll teach you how to make a kick-ass dressing."

It was the best salad she'd ever had.

***

Thanks so much for reading and reviewing--you guys make my day! :)


	4. Revelation

**A/N: **"Jenna" is my imaginary name for Puck's sister…chosen pretty much at random, just 'cause it sounds nice with "Noah." :)

**Chapter Four: Revelation**

Geometry class. Quinn's notebook:

_A _bisector_ of an angle is a ray, dividing the angle in two. Thus, the bisector OM of angle BOA makes two angles: BOM and MOA. Bisectors of vertical angles…_

_Emily  
Rose  
__Grace__—too trendy  
Ariella—too Disney?  
Ella  
Posy? (Ballet Shoes)  
Rebecca  
Becca—cute!_

Then a sketch: a house, complete with front porch, path and tree swing; a small figure, hair streaming behind her, running across the penciled lawn; a larger figure chasing her, his arms outstretched; a third sitting in the swing, relaxed and smiling.

Quinn started as a small cylinder of paper landed on the open page. She unfurled it: _Tonight—spaghetti, Puck-style. You in?_ Glancing up, she caught his eye and nodded.

She went straight home after school, collapsing on the futon. (Strange, how quickly her room over the garage had become "home." She never felt that way at Finn's or Brittany's.) Thank God it was her evening off at Marshall's; at Glee practice, they had run through their latest number at least ten times, and she was exhausted.

It was dark when she sat up, startled by a pounding at her door. "Quinn! Hey! Are you in there? C'mon, Q, open up!" Puck's voice sounded urgent, angry almost.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she stumbled across to the door as quickly as she could.

"Where've you _been_? I've been standing out here for, like, ten minutes. I almost broke the window!"

She ran a hand over her rumpled hair. "Sorry," she yawned. "I guess I was more tired than I thought."

"But you're OK? The baby's OK? I thought maybe, all that dancing today—" He reached out, touching her belly protectively—then stopped. And yanked his hand away as if he'd been burned.

They stood looking at each other. He'd never touched her stomach, not since that night five months ago. In fact, she hadn't let anyone touch her baby bump; every time Finn tried, she pulled away and made some excuse. It just felt like a violation, somehow: this was _her_ baby, _her_ body—did she go around randomly touching other people?

Puck stepped back, running a hand over his hair. "So—anyway—I was just starting dinner. Didn't want you to miss out on learning to make 'Puck-sketti'—that's what Jenna calls it."

Quinn felt like something had opened between them…only to close right back up again. She tried to shake it off. "Sure. I'll be right down."

Puck nodded and left. She quickly smoothed her hair, brushed her teeth, put on some lip gloss (though why, she wasn't sure—he'd already seen her looking pretty rough).

When she came into the kitchen, hamburger was popping and sizzling in a pan. These last few months, the smell of any meat product had made her nauseous, and she whirled around, ready to make a run for the bathroom—before realizing that, actually, she was fine.

His back to her, Puck was busy opening several cans of tomatoes. When the whirring of the can opener stopped, she spoke up. "OK, Wolfgang, one sous-chef reporting for duty."

He rolled his eyes. "Finally! I swear, the help around here sucks—no dedication, no appreciation…"

"If you're going to get all 'Hell's Kitchen' on me, then we can just forget it."

"That's Gordon Ramsay, not my bro Wolfie." Quinn raised her eyebrows at him. "What? My mom's addicted to Food Network. Now enough with the mouth…wash your hands and open the rest of these," he gestured to the cans. "I'll start on the garlic."

"Ewww…garlic? Do you really need it?"

Again with the eye-rolling. "Do we really need it?! What's the matter...afraid I won't want to kiss you?" he leered.

She put on her most offended look. "No! It's just…the baby doesn't seem to like it."

"What? Not like garlic? Are you sure she's mine?" Quinn held an open can at the ready, and he backtracked. "Kidding!"

Half an hour later, Quinn had successfully chopped an onion (no blood spilled, hers or Puck's) sautéed it with a carrot and a pinch of sugar (the secret ingredient), and added the tomatoes. The kitchen smelled incredible; her stomach growled loudly in response.

"Natives getting restless?" Puck said, as she flushed. "Here, we better give them a taste." He held a spoonful of the rich red sauce out for her to taste. God, that was good—

"Ouch!" she cried, one hand on her belly.

The spoon clattered to the floor as Puck bent over her. "Are you OK? Was it the garlic? I thought two cloves would be—"

"Relax, Puck," she grinned up at him. "Sometimes she just kicks me—really hard."

"Oh." The relief on his face was comical…but sweet nonetheless.

On impulse, she took his hand. "Want to feel? Right…here." She put her hand over his, on her left side. They waited quietly until the baby gave one more quick jab.

All Puck's swagger dropped away. "She's really…_there_. Inside you. Breathing and growing and kicking. That's…awesome." He didn't move his hand. "_You're_ awesome."

Inches apart, their eyes locked. Quinn finally saw what she'd been hoping for: no bravado, no sarcasm, no guilt about Finn or wondering what the hell they were going to do, two 16-year-olds with a baby. Just this moment, the two of them and this miracle they hadn't even meant to create.

She didn't want to lose it, this time, by a caustic comment or a sudden retreat. So as he laced his fingers with hers, she closed the space between them with a kiss…pure, and true, and now.

She didn't know what would happen later. But with Puck's arms around her, strong and safe, she could see in her mind's eye that house with the front porch and the little family playing on the lawn.

Maybe it _could_ be them. Maybe.


	5. Conclusion

**Chapter Five: Conclusion (Kinda)**

Of course, it wasn't perfect.

Puck was still Puck, which meant that at any given time, he had about a sixty percent chance of saying something selfish, thoughtless, or jaw-droppingly inappropriate. Like, for example, that he didn't "dig on fat chicks."

Still, they were making their way forward…slowly, slowly. Being with Puck was a huge adjustment for Quinn. The other boys she'd dated had, like Finn, seemed a little dumbstruck at their good fortune. They were perfectly willing to let her call all the shots, from where they could go on a date ("_Please_. If you can't come up with something better than the mall KFC and _Transformers_, don't bother picking me up!") to how _far_ they could go on a date (Finn wasn't the only one to be shown the wonders of Immaculate Affection). They meekly accepted her scathing put-downs and bowed out quietly when she was tired of them.

Puck acted sometimes like he had done her an enormous favor by taking her virginity and leaving her pregnant. He didn't hesitate to shoot down a movie suggestion ("_The_ _Back-Up Plan_? I SO don't need to see that. What's wrong with _Kick-Ass_?"); he was merciless in his criticism of her knife skills and, surprisingly, her wardrobe ("Seriously? The sack o' potatoes look? Early '90s, babe."). When she got irritable or short with him, he ratcheted up the argument or stormed out with a resounding door slam.

But there were times when the look in his eyes was all for her, times when the wisecracks let up and he'd melt her with sweetness. He kept a little lockbox in his room that was slowly filling with cash from (Quinn fervently hoped) the spring pool cleaning; he took her to her doctor's appointments and tried hard not to be grossed out. More than once he repeated what he'd said to her that day in the school hallway: "We could be a family."

And she would forgive whatever idiotic comment he'd made, pull him in for a long, slow kiss, and they would grin stupidly at each other, and it would be OK. Mostly.

Until one day…

She caught sight of him surrounded by Cheerios, nodding and laughing. This in itself wasn't really noteworthy—Puck flirted as naturally as he breathed. But then one ambitious slut pulled him aside, whispering something in his ear. His arm snaked around her waist as he bent down to hear; he handed her his phone, and her fingers flew over the buttons.

Quinn remembered babysitting that night. And the sexting that went on, practically under her nose, while she blissfully sang "Papa Don't Preach" to three unruly kindergartners.

Lips pressed together, she stalked over, grabbing the arm of his jacket and pulling. She didn't stop until they were all the way down the hall.

"What the—? Jesus, what's wrong with you?" His eyes were dark, unreadable.

"I let you make an idiot out of me once." She looked down at her stomach, and corrected herself. "_Twice_. It won't happen a third time!"

"I don't even know what you're talking about!"

She seethed, "I saw you, Puck. What are you thinking? That you'll store up a few new numbers, in case I get too fat, or get stretch marks, or my feet swell? You need someone new to sext with, now that Santana's cut you off?"

He rolled his eyes. "Here we go. Another ride on the Hormone Express. Buckle up, kids, it's gonna get bumpy!"

She grabbed his phone and pressed "Contacts." At the top was a new entry: "Kylie." Underneath her number was a note: "Ready when you are! :)"

This time she did smack him. And turned on her heel, marching away as fast as her flats would carry her.

"Nice waddle, Daisy," he called after her.

She made it to the relative privacy of a bathroom stall before tears overwhelmed her. Was this what it was going to be like, all the time? Having to look over her shoulder, question his intentions, wonder where he was, who he was with?

She'd said, when it all fell apart the first time, that she'd do this by herself; she damn well could, she'd proven that now. Only...it had been nice, having someone to hold her hand. And teach her how to slice an onion. And share her secret joy when she felt the baby move.

She thought of his phone, and the smirk on his face. _Not worth it. _Definitely_ not worth it_.

Still repeating it like a mantra later that afternoon, she pulled her history book from her locker and tried to figure out just where the hell she was going to go. Banging the door shut, she glanced up…and there he was.

She tried to think of something particularly stinging to say, but strangely, her "bitch retort" seemed out of commission. Plus, he looked weird: eyes cast down, shoulders slumped. Like he was…ashamed?

He lifted a hand to her shoulder, pushing one curl back. She was searching his face for an explanation when she saw it: dangling from his fingers was a beautifully delicate silver chain, an old-fashioned baby shoe suspended from one of its links.

Her mouth went dry. "What's this for?" she asked, far less bitterly than she intended.

If he had said anything, anything at all, she probably would've told him to go to hell. But his silence caught her, kept her standing there watching as he fastened the bracelet around her wrist and stepped back.

She looked down at the filigree chain glinting in the hallway's strip lighting, and fought hard to stay angry. _Does he think I'm stupid—he shouldn't have done it—he should treat me with more respect—_

He better not. He shouldn't. He absolutely should. Could she forgive him?

Tears clung to her lashes, then slipped down her cheeks as she reached up to him. Crowds thronged the hallway, but they were alone together, trading wordless apologies and promises and sweet, sweet nothings.

Perfect was overrated, anyway.

**The End**

**(for now)**

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Note: The last part of this chapter is from another Quick piece I wrote called "Apology"—I switched it around to Quinn's POV.

I'm hoping to write a sequel to this, that incorporates some of the (very few) Quick moments in the most recent episodes. In the meantime, thanks so much for reading and reviewing!!


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